Independence Imagination 단편 소설 & Redemption 소설

I was the sole front desk clerk at a haunted hotel. Welcoming players, checking in on the bosses’ quarters, and slacking off a bit were all part of the job. At least, that was what I thought. It turned out my days were far from ordinary. A blood-drenched little girl in a tattered red dress kept ringing the service bell. Her eerie voice echoed, “Miss, why didn’t you come play with me?” A creepy black cat with glowing eyes wouldn’t stop meowing and rubbing against my legs. And then there was the old woman with claws like knives, cheerfully knitting me a sweater… out of players’ skin. One day, I took a day off to care for my sick mother. That was my biggest mistake. The entire game instance erupted in chaos. Bosses interrogated players, demanding to know where their precious front desk clerk had gone. “Did she abandon us? Is she never coming back?” I ran. They chased. But no matter how fast I fled, their grip on me only tightened. In the end, escape wasn’t an option.

The day I was supposed to win the biggest award of my career, I walked in on my boyfriend, Ethan, in bed with another woman. He sneered, calling me a face-blind, scent-deaf bore in bed. I planned to expose his ass at the award ceremony. Instead, he and his lover mowed me down with their car. Next thing I knew, I woke up with them in an S-class horror survival game. Mortality rate: over 95%. We had to survive ten days in a haunted manor to be revived. Hit 100 on your Anxiety Level, and your soul is obliterated. Chloe, Ethan's lover, sneered. "Sensory defects? You can't recognize ghosts or smell danger. In a horror game, that’s a death sentence. You might as well just die." The others heard her and scrambled to team up. Me? I walked straight into the lair of the manor's final boss. The most powerful demon in the game wanted to devour my soul. I couldn't really see him. I just thought he was a cosplayer. I lunged forward, poked his abs, and pointed at the glowing crack in his chest. "Wow, you're really committed to the role. This getup must've cost a fortune."

After creating a social media account for my newborn daughter, Natalie Graham, I made her first post. "Welcome to the world, Nattie." Three minutes later, a notification pops up. "Mom, I miss you." I frown. It has to be one of my friends messing with me. Then, another comment appears. "Mom, why did you die when I was one month old? Aunt Wanda said it was because I was naughty. She said you jumped off a roof because you hated me. "I'm five now, and I've been really, really good. Aunt Wanda said I had to fall down the stairs one more time for Dad to come home. Will I get to see you too, Mom?" My mind goes blank. My fingers tremble so badly I can barely type. Wanda Levine is my husband Zane Graham's secretary. The first time he mentioned her was while he was peeling an orange for me. "Wanda was one of the students my family sponsored," he casually starts. "She's done well for herself. After graduating, she earned a spot in the executive office." The room is perfectly warm, yet a chill runs straight through me. Without thinking, I quickly fire off a reply. "Don't go anywhere near the stairs!" Her response leaves me speechless.

The courier delivered a crocodile beastman meant for a lab straight to my door. I thought it was the merman I'd ordered. I took good care of him, and as we spent time together, he gradually came to accept me. A month later, the golden-eyed giant crocodile was lounging comfortably in my lap. The doorbell rang. Outside stood a handsome young man. "Hello, I'm the merman you ordered. I'm so sorry for the delay—there were some issues with the shop." A wide shadow fell over me from behind. The tall man stood beside me, his powerful tail curling around my waist. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. And when he spoke, his voice was low but sharp as a blade. "Care to explain who this is? Dear... owner."

In this baseball-obsessed city, Leo Adams was the home run king who never missed. Every time he stepped up to bat, he'd start with the same gesture. Two fingers tapping his right wrist, then a steady point in my direction. The whole city spent two months trying to figure out who it was meant for. No one ever did. No one knew it was meant for me, a team doctor still on probation. And no one knew about the stream of comments only I could see, always drifting across my vision and calling the outcome of the next swing before anyone else. Bottom of the ninth, down by one, bases loaded, two outs. Forty thousand people were on their feet, screaming his name. The comments suddenly flashed blood-red, all at once, with a single message. One more swing would destroy his right wrist on the spot. So just before he raised his hand to make that gesture, I stood up and reversed our signal.